The Joke
by SarahNWords
Summary: What happened in jail between Mycroft and Moriarty. M due to language


Mycroft leaned against the windows ledge. The silence within the room he was staring into resonated within him. He couldn't hear Moriarty breathe, he could barely her him think. Those eyes just stared out back at him. Mycroft had hoped to hear the ticking that'll lead him down the rabbit hole. But there was nothing. Just those pitch dark eyes with thousands of plots behind them, like twisting knifes in backs. A spasm ran through his back instantly as though one had somehow lodged in him at that very moment. Jumping, Mycroft composed himself and hoped none of his inferiors had seen the sudden shock of doubt.

What was he going to do with this man? Was he even a man? Mycroft wished he knew; after all, isn't this what he was trained for? Countless nights hunting down an impeccable criminal mastermind, locking him up and keeping him away, and all for what? So he could sit vacant with all those secrets behind those soulless eyes. And then panic would ensue, Mycroft knew that this man was so capable of anything. A million bombs could detonate with a blink, the explosions practically there with the sparks in his eyes. And caught up in the midst of this madness, was Mycroft's little brother; Sherlock.

Somehow, Sherlock was directly in the warpath of this criminal. Attracting unwanted attention was always Sherlock's speciality. Throughout their childhood, he was always the target of bullies. Growing up that just developed into everyone and practically half of London had their personal vendetta against him. Mycroft had grown weary of trying to protect him. Even now, he swelled with irritation and an almost jealousy whenever he thought of his baby brother, swanning about and infuriating establishments. Mycroft, as a reflex, rolled his eyes and moaned, all these anxious emotions had begun to erode his stomach and the emptiness it left behind groaned.

In a moment of worry, as always, Mycroft had a strange craving for cake.

The door behind him opened, from the corner of his eye he knew what the person was carrying. Water. Freezing cold water. It was used to shock uncooperative prisoners. Mycroft sighed. He knew he shouldn't do it; allow his men beat Moriarty up. But he needed to know the secrets that lay in that villains mind. If he had to crack the egg for it to spill out, then so be it.

This time Mycroft felt a pang of guilt. He didn't know exactly what it was but it had something to do with Sherlock. In a blink, in Moriarty's place, he could see Sherlock; chained up, bloodied and bruised. The knife no longer twisted in Mycroft's back but held the two men by the slither of it's blade. Those two men, who held the power of such wrought feelings in him, could swap places and no one would know the difference. Mycroft knew it and despised it.

He held out a hand to stop his man from going into the cell. He shook his head, "No, I think that is enough for one day," he swallowed. The man simply nodded then left the room, muttering under his breath. Mycroft exhaled heavily, removed the pocket watch out of his waistcoat and looked at the time. The routine had become like clockwork.

"What? No water this time Mr Holmes?" bellowed from the room. Mycroft eyebrow rose and he looked up to find Moriarty had moved. He was now stood facing him. Of course, Mycroft knew that Moriarty couldn't see him. But Moriarty knew that Mycroft was there. "We all know how much you love your water. Is there a drought Mr Holmes?"

He walked a couple of steps towards the two way mirror, Mycroft held his breath inside his lungs as though fear had taken hold of him. But surely, Mycroft couldn't be afraid of Moriarty? The shaking of his hands said otherwise. _Pull yourself together_, he said to himself, _he is only a man_.

Before he knew it Moriarty was stood, inches away from his face and at last, Mycroft could hear the ticking. Except it wasn't leading him down the rabbit hole, but it was impending doom. Moriarty gazed over the glass, looking up and down over his reflection before staring right into it. If this were transparent, Mycroft would be nose to nose with him. He took some pleasure in knowing that while he could try to read the expressions of Moriarty; the man will never know how pursed Mycroft's lips were. Or how terrified his eyes were.

A crook of a smile appeared on the madman's lips, twisting with some hidden pleasure. "What does it say about a clock that doesn't tick on time, Ice Man?" he begun, words dancing on his tongue as though he were reciting poetry. "It says that the clock is broken. And I was under the impression that I was here for you to break me. Not the other way around. What is it about my silence that makes you flap around? You use your thugs against me when we both know you'd love to come in here and give me a good spanking yourself. But I guess you are above all that Mr Holmes. Best not show any emotion, even though we both know it is eating away at you."

He chuckled to himself and peered around the glass again, folding his arms slightly; "I won't waste your time any longer. You know exactly how to get in here." He tapped the side of his head.

"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. And as though he heard him, Moriarty nodded.

"You know. This mirror reminds me of a joke," Moriarty said with a huge grin, "a man is naked and looks in the mirror, saying to his wife. 'Why do I always get a hard on when I look at myself?' Without a beat, the wife replies, 'because even your cock thinks you're a cunt'."

He dragged that last word out, slowly into the nothingness allowing the vile syllables roll out and he enjoyed the way they tasted. Moriarty sighed and yawned, "I don't find the joke particularly funny. I just like to imagine how angry your face is because I said the word cunt."

With that, he walked away to sit back down at the table, switching his eyes off again. True to form, Mycroft found himself full of rage. Not just because the sudden lack of decorum had shaken him but because Moriarty knew it.

And the villain was one step further into Mycroft's mind

When Mycroft felt he had taken two steps out of Moriarty's,


End file.
